I got home from the gym a little while ago and since then I have taken a shower, got dressed and did my makeup, took out the trash, recycling, and compost, done the dishes, wiped down the kitchen counters, and taken my vitamins. Not to mention that when I first got home I smoked a little weed and ate some waffles. Back when I was the old me, living in that nasty house on the highway in Nice, CA, I used to be one of those stoners who couldn't do shit. I'd just sit there and eat and surf the internet. Or drink and surf the internet. I couldn't exercise, pay a bill, make dinner, clean the house, or clean myself. I was a waste product. Needless to say, I felt like a loser. Today, I figure, if I smoke weed, it's okay, as long as I am still a functioning human being who is able to take care of business. I've found that I've actually become more productive stoned than I do just normally. I used to tell myself I couldn't write stoned, and it was probably just an excuse I told myself so I didn't have to write. Or exercise. Although I wouldn't exercise stoned because that would just be counterintuitive, I also wouldn't let it come before a work out. Nothing comes between me and the gym. I'm there rain or shine, heartache or bursting at the seems with love, whether I'm angry, depressed, way too full from over eating, sick, or in pain. I always go. I can't imagine anything other than HAM being as important as the gym. I guess school. School takes even more time than the gym and balancing the two is difficult. I don't know how HAM does everything that he does. He'll make a good marketing executive someday, or whatever he decides to do. I remember back in my senior year of college, I was newly married, in school full time, working part time, applying to grad schools, and smoking crack on the weekends. I mean, not every single weekend, but if it wasn't crack, I was getting drunk, popping Xanax and Oxycontin, snorting cocaine, or even dropping ectasy. Who knows how I made it through all of that with my degree and a 3.9 GPA. Of course I didn't get into grad school, and I'm sure it was because I was delusional from the drugs. But I still accomplished a lot while I was handling a million other things. So I wonder, was it not being accepted to grad school that really pushed me over the edge as far as "partying", or was it just the natural progression of addiction? In AA, they say that's what happens - you can never maintain. One is too many and a thousand is never enough. I guess I don't know yet. I do know the year before I quit drinking and getting high was the worst year of my life. I definitely don't want to end up back there again. So maybe that's why I become so overly productive, trying to prove to myself that It's different this time. But is it worth it? Because if I am truly an addict, this won't stay manageable. It will become unmanageable and I'll have to stop. If it turns out I was just misguided and had some impermanent dependency issues, then I guess I could go on forever feeling satisfied with a little evening weed smoking and one glass of wine. That would be fine. Honestly, I don't know why I ever liked getting drunk. It's much better to just slowly sip one glass of fabulous wine than "get fucked up". I don't like being out of control, doing and saying things I normally wouldn't do and say, and waking up feeling like shit, dehydrated and ashamed. No thank you. One is just right, actually. I don't ever feel like I'm stopping myself from having more. All I care for is one, and then I feel done. Damn, AA really fucks a person't head up, doesn't it? It's so weird, because AA helps so many people, but it's also a brainwashing cult. It's just that the brainwashing helps a lot of people. But it hurts people, too. It hurt me and I've heard stories about others. I guess I just don't have the answers on this. I guess I'll just have to watch and see what happens, and hope it's nothing I'll regret.

Today was good. I worked an extra hour than usual and I got my paycheck. I got my nails done for a pretty good price and I got dark green french tips. They look beautiful. But Thursday sucked. I've always wanted to be a nude model. Not a pornographic-style nude, but nude art - painting or photography, it's just something I've always wanted to do and do before I get too old. So I found a person on line who's local and his photographs are very artistic and beautiful. I emailed him about modeling and he said I could send some clothed photos of myself so he can see if he's interested. I mentioned all of this to HAM and he did what he always does when he's mad; nothing. He just turns silent and then I have to keep bugging him until he finally tells me what his problem is. This time, it was that he felt like I was doing something behind his back. Then he said that all those male photographers just want to sleep with their subjects.  He said, "You want some dude to take nude pictures of you?" as if I was going to some back alley motel so some dude with a camera could snap dirty pictures of me and sell them on a porn website. So we started fighting and the truth came out. It had little to do with nude modeling, and everything to do with the whole thing that recently happened with ALL. He hasn't said much about it since it happened, but it finally came out on thursday that he thinks about it frequently and it disgusts him and he doesn't know if he will ever forgive me. I tried to explain that my wanting to leave him for my abusive ex-fiance had much more to do with  medication that with my heart's desire. When I left ALL in February 2010, I knew I would NEVER be with him again. I wasn't attracted to him anymore and had no desire to try to fix his broken ass ever again. But then, a year later, I'm dealing with the worst insomnia of my life, as well as an awful binge-eating disorder. So first, I try every natural sleeping rememdy known to man and none of them work. Then I try Ambien, and it's like a miracle drug. The problem is, I don't actually have a prescription for it, I'm taking my Dad's Ambien (which he knew about - I wasn't stealing it from him). So I go to my doc and try to get a script for it since it's the only thing that works, and the doc tried about a zillion other sleep aids but refuses to give me Ambien. So I continue taking my Dad's supply, and start to become depressed. The binge eating gets worse, I'm having freaky nightmare almost every night, and still can only sleep for four hours at a time. So I get on anti-depressants and my initial reaction to them is anxiety, panic attacks, and worsening depression...but they stop the binge-eating, so I stick it out. Meanwhile, my ex gets a hold of me after we hadn't spoken in a long time, and he's telling me he loves me and would do anything for me, and I'm desperately trying to get HAM to say this to me. I want to know where the relationship is going and he keeps saying, "I can't predict the future." No "I love you and want to be with you forever," just, "I can't predict the future." So I get more wrapped up in ALL telling me what I want to hear, and even though I know I don't want to be with ALL, I feel attached to him because I want to hear, "I love you" from someone since I'm depressed, anxious, and crying nonstop every day. Then ALL disappears. His phone is disconnected, his Facebook page is deleted - he's just gone. And then I feel so alone, and HAM doesn't love me, and doesn't want to be with me, or isn't sure, and I start feeling desperate to get this attention from someone, so a month later when ALL reappears and says he still loves me and wants to be with me, I actually consider it. Then I confess all of this to HAM, he talks me out of going back to ALL, tells me he loves me and wants to marry me and have babies with me (one day) and then I feel hurt. I feel like, "Why the fuck didn't you tell me any of this before?" And I'd spent so much time talking myself out of loving him or imagining a future with him, that it became difficult for me to just change my mind. But I finally did change my mind. I adjusted to the antidepressants and got off Ambien FOREVER (thank god), but in the process, I hurt ALL, I hurt HAM, and I hurt myself. HAM and I fell madly in love, I cut ALL completely out of the picture, and everything was bliss and fun and love until thursday, when I found out that it wasn't all bliss and fun and love. There is still pain and uncertainty for HAM, and I don't blame him at all. So I spent the whole day crying and feeling like shit about what I terrible person I have been. But, to my credit, I have spent every day since HAM and I committed to eachother trying to be the best girlffriend I can be. I cook, I clean, I wear lingerie, I got my nails done with french tips (his favorite), I give him rides and pick him up whenever I can, I brought him lunch today, we have sex pretty much daily, and I spend as much time with him as I can. But apparently, all of that doesn't compare to being betrayed. And some of the things I said to him were so hurtful and I'm so embarrassed, but I swear it was the Ambien making me crazy! But even if it was the Ambien, the words were still hurtful, my actions were still hurtful, and I can't take any of it back. It happened and now I have to live with the consequences, which could end up meaning that I lose the man I love and hope to be with forever.  I hope he decides to forgive me and forget that part of our past, but if he doesn't, I have to somehow accept that and move on. God, I'm such a douchebag sometimes. In honor of my douchbaggedness, here is one of my favorite songs:

Since Amy Winehouse was found dead in her apartment, everyone's been talking about the age 27. So many artists have died at age 27, and everyone is asking, "What is the significance of this number?" Of course, we all know that Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Jimi Hendrix died at age 27, but there are others, too. They call it the 27 Club. A complete list of all the musicians who died at 27 is available on Wikipedia. It makes me think of my 27th year. It was the worst of my drug and alcohol addiction. I lived in this brokedown palace on Highway 20 in Nice, California. The house was this huge, dilapidated shithole covered in chipped white paint. The owners of the house split it into two apartments, one with store frontage facing the highway. The guy who lived in the front apartment owned an antique shop. He was pretty much a jerk, but we didn't talk to him much. RC (my husband at the time) and I lived in the apartment around back. It was two stories. Upstairs had a master bedroom, two bathrooms, a living room and kitchen. In the summer, the upstairs would get so hot that I could barely stand to cook anything in that kitchen because it was like cooking inside a sauna. The downstairs was somehow dug out after the house was built, so the ceiling was very low. It had a living room, a weird bedroom in the back, and a full bathroom. This was also where the entry to the house was located. Another door was upstairs, but it was off the side of the deck and wasn't a good place to enter the house. RC and I spent most of our time in the downstairs area because it was warmer in winter and cooler in summer. RC was gone a lot, though, because it was a two hour drive from our house to the mountain where he was growing weed. I went with him sometimes, and I had a job trimming buds for some people up there that paid $20/ hour. But most of the time, I'd stay home with the dogs, or at least one of the dogs. I'd mess around on the internet for hours, with the TV on as background noise. I'd sit there, smoke weed, drink wine or beer, sometimes scotch neat. I got a prescription for Vicodin, so I'd pop them like candy while drinking and smoking. Sometimes, I would feel my heart squeezing like it was going to explode, but I never told anyone. This was also when Amy Winehouse's second album came out, the album that projected her to stardom. I used to make these videos of myself singing songs to karaoke music and post them on YouTube. I was drunk when I did Amy Winehouse's song, "You Know I'm No Good". I got a lot of negative feedback on that one, which, at the time, hurt my feelings, but looking back at it later, it's obvious why people didn't like it - I was wasted. I guess I thought that there was no other way to sing Amy Winehouse - she was always wasted, so I should be too. I fell in love with both of her albums. My friend told me there was this cool song out called, "Rehab", so I checked it out, and she was right - it was brilliant. I promptly downloaded everything Amy Winehouse had ever recorded and began listening to her albums on repeat. But at the same time, I was dying. I had been overweight a few months earlier, but I decided that alcohol had far too many calories for me to continue eating food, so I gave it up, except for the occasional fifty calorie hamburger bun. RC would ask, "What are gonna have for dinner tonight?" And I would reply, "Well, I don't know what you're having, but I'm having wine." I lost 20 pounds in a month or two on the PAW diet. That's pills, alcohol, and weed. I started an internet affair with my husband's friend. He contacted me on MySpace and after that, we started talking on the phone when my husband was on the mountain and his wife was at work. I began drinking scotch first thing in the morning, so when he called me, I'd be more relaxed. I felt so guilty for having this long-distance affair that I had to drink in order to go through with it. I couldn't work anymore. I was unemployable. I was writing a little, but it was mostly self-loathing ramblings - nothing productive or interesting. At night I would get so paranoid that I was sure some tweaker would break into the house and rape me. I couldn't clean, I couldn't pay any bills. I could hardly bathe myself or brush my teeth. I would go three days without a shower some times, even though I had one in the next room. Many nights I spent sobbing uncontrollably, believing that I was going insane. I still remember one time I had smoked a ton of weed, drank a few glasses of wine, and took two Trazadone. I stood up and immediately collapsed on face forward. I had my head hard on the ground, and even as messed up as I was, I thought, this is NOT okay. My life was definitely unmanageable and I had lost all control my actions. I determined my problem to be sex addiction. That was the only possible explanation for my behavior. Why else would I have an affair? (Even thought I was also on Prozac during all of this so I couldn't have an orgasm. I'd always fake it when I was on the phone with RC's friend.) I called the community clinic one day to make an appointment with a counselor. When I went for the appointment, the counselor told me that I couldn't afford to see him, but it sounded like I needed AA more than SA. He gave me a list of local meetings, and I went to one that afternoon. This begins a new chapter in my life, and there's much more to this story than just going to a meeting, but I did choose sobriety. I think maybe age 27 is so poignant in a person's life because it's sort of a change over from childhood to adulthood. People who spent most of their lives medicating with drugs and alcohol realize at this point that it's either going to be a lifelong problem or they're going to have to grow up. If you've been getting high since you were thirteen and you're still doing it at 27, chances are it's not a party anymore. It's not a casual thing to do once in a while with friends, it's a daily, lonely nightmare and it seems like you'll never wake up. For whatever reason, I was one of the lucky ones who managed to get out alive, but so many people, like Amy Winehouse, never wake up.

I've been watching all these documentaries about weed growing in Nor-Cal, the legalization of medical marijuana in California State, and it's got me thinking. Washington State has decriminalized medical marijuana and you can get a prescription here for medicinal use if you have certain conditions. I have one of the conditions on the list, so I could get a card. You're allowed to grow 15 plants and have up to 24 ounces of dried buds at one time. Just thinking about it, not sure if I would really go through all the trouble. At least I know it's a possibility. Although it's still a federal offense.

I'm at work right now and I have to write from work because HAM and I will hopefully be spending time together once I'm off. Today I went to counseling in the morning and the gym on my lunch break. I love productive days like this where I get shit done in the morning so by the time I'm done with work I don't have anything else to do. I bought a protein bar and a salad at Whole Foods and ate the protein bar, then got an Americano after the gym. Still haven't eaten the salad yet. Today in counseling (as you know, since you were there) we talked about fat/ looks and why it is so important to me. That possibly I believe the only way people will like me is if I am beautiful and thin. I know there is more to people than looks. Obviously! I have dated various guys (and even married a guy) who lack a complete set of teeth. My ex-fiance had something he called "dick-do". That's when your belly sticks out further than your dick do. My husband was bald on top - he only had hair around the sides of his head (just like my grandpa). But the issue, of course, isn't the people I have had relationships with - it's me and my ridiculously high standards for myself. But it's not just looks that matter to me. I also want to be smart and funny and accomplished. I want to do something worthwhile with my life. And be beautiful. But why is so overwhelmingly important and obsessive to be beautiful? Am I just a product of my culture? Apparently not. Apparently, it has more to do with feeling like I can't control anything in my life, that I am ineffectual (is that how you spell it?) and so I use my weight/ food/ looks because it's all I am able to control. Damn, that's some deep shit. Why would I have such a strong desire to control anything? Maybe because people have always been controlling me and making decisions for my life. Like ALL, he controlled every move I made. And my ex-husband, RC. After college I was hoping to go to grad school or at least get a good job, but he moved me out to the mountains where I couldn't get a job and was totally isolated. There were plenty other boyfriends - paranoid, delusional, controlling boyfriends who kept tabs on every fucking thing I did, every male friend, every time I went out without them. I had one boyfriend who was so delusional that when I came home wearing one of my Dad's shirts, he accused me of having an incestuous relationship with him. I had one boyfriend kidnap me and keep me against my will until I finally escaped. I actually had to run for my life, jump over fences, and hide in a fucking bush to escape this maniac. Even my Dad - he has so much power over me that all he has to do is dislike something I want to do, and before I know it, I have given up. He's the reason I had an abortion (the most recent one anyway). There's always some dude pulling my strings from behind a curtain. I'm this pretty little puppet, just moving about the way I'm told. So yeah, that gets old. When I was with ALL, I was at my most perfect weight. My body was rock solid and I weighed about 110. I looked amazing. But my exercise routine was unreal. I spent 2 1/2 hours at the gym every time I went. And I even had to fight him for that time at the gym. It became a major source of tension in our relationship because when we were doing the long-distance thing, he didn't like not being able to contact me for those 2 1/2 hours, and when I was living with him, he didn't want to spend that long at the gym. He controlled everything in my life, so I controlled my body. But now I'm with HAM and he doesn't control anything. I am free to do whatever the fuck I want and he doesn't ever tell me what to do or try to influence me to do what he wants or thinks is right. The only thing he wants for me is for me to do what I want and to be happy. And to love him. And it's easy to love him. I wonder if he reads this? If he does he probably hates how much I talk about my exes, but it's therapeutic. I need to write about them to get them out of my system. I remember when ALL started telling me not to get too muscular because he wouldn't be attracted to me. I didn't understand this, since he always said he would still love me and think I was hot if I got fat...but not extremely fit? So of course I started lifting heavier weights and doing less reps. I started working on my upper body a lot, doing pull-ups and dips, flys and bicep curls. Then after we broke up I got even more intense about it because I was pissed. I wanted to run fast, workout hard, be big and strong and look like you better not fuck with me. But the thing about it is, it's really addictive. Once you start getting big, even though it looks a little scary on a girl, it feels good. Looking in the mirror and seeing all that definition, those giant biceps, cut up traps and lats. It feels good to be strong. And maybe I wouldn't be able to take on a 220 pound ex-con with a DV problem, but at least I look like you better not fuck with me. So yeah, control. I control my body. But no one is controlling me anymore. I can do what I want now. So does that mean that my obsession with weight and looks means something other than needing to control something in my life, or is it residual shit left over from a past of violent and controlling men? I guess I've been doing the whole weight-crazy thing since around the time my parents were in the process of divorce. I was eight then, so of course I had no control over my parents relationship. Maybe it all goes back to that. But seriously, I'm really over it! That was so long ago! I love my parents, they're still friends, everyone has moved on. I don't hold grudges and I don't hold on to the past. I'm way more of a future-tripper than I past-obsesser. I guess the reality is that I don't know why I'm such a freak about my physical appearance. I know it doesn't feel good to put this much pressure on myself, but I'm afraid to/ don't know how to stop. Oh well, I guess this is a to-be-continued situation.

I was going to write about having kids and how I always joke that if I were to have two children, I already have their nams picked out: Resentment and Dream Killer. I was talking with HAM the other day about how I just can't imagine that there would ever be a good time in our lives for children, and that I really love dogs, but have never really loved humans. Especially whiny, selfish ones who I could easily beat up. I was never really one of those types of girls who fantasized about her wedding day and subsequent children. Not to say I've always been against the idea. I wanted to have a baby once. I did a lot of research on it. I was going to be one of those controversial parents who let their baby sleep in bed with them, despite warning that you could roll over and suffocate your baby in the night. The facts are that this doesn't happen. If you have the right kind of pillow to keep the baby from falling off the bed (which is much more likely) then you're golden. And that whole thing about leaving the baby crying in another room so they can learn to self-soothe - I think that's bullshit. My parents did that with me and how did I learn to self-soothe? Cake. I'd rather be overly dependent on my mom than overly dependent on cake. And I was going to have a waterbirth, free of epidurals, doctors, and hospitals. I was either going to go to a birthing center, or rent a tub and have my baby at home, in a birthing tub filled with warm water. I was going to hire a midwife and only use doctors and ex-rays when absolutely necessary, but I wasn't going to do what so many women are doing these days: scheduling their due date. It's so freaky! As if the sterile hospital setting with the poor mother-to-be spread-eagle on a hospital bed, strung out on opiates and being told to "push" wasn't disturbing enough, now women can choose to just "go under", get cut open, and wake up with a baby. That is just so wrong I can't even express my disgust for it. Doesn't anyone do anything naturally anymore? I mean, I'm all for a good boob-job (saving up for mine) but seriously - shouldn't birth be sacred? Isn't it an experience that will forever bond mother and baby? Why would a woman choose to be completely checked out of that experience. Your baby is entering the world and her very first experience is that her mother is not present, not there for her. She is zonked out under anesthesia and the baby is ripped from her stomach and taken away to be cleaned and snipped and who knows what else, and then mom comes to later to a nice, cleaned up, trimmed up baby. Fuck that. Anyway, my point is, I did quite a bit of research. I was going to teach my baby sign language so it would be able to communicate with me before it learned it form words, therefore lessening certain instances of colic. I was going to play soothing music against my growing belly for the baby to listen to in utero. I was going to feed my baby a vegan, organic diet so it wouldn't be subjected to the hormones in dairy and chemicals in conventional foods. I started taking prenatal vitamins, had my IUD taken out, and got off anti-depressants while my fiance was still in jail just to prepare for his release. And the they he got out we started trying to get pregnant. It took about eight months and I finally had a positive test. It hadn't been more than a few weeks since we learned of my pregnancy that we were going to visit his grandpa in Mendocino County, about a two hour drive from where we were living in San Rafael. He still wasn't officially living with me - he was living at the SLE down the street, Marin Services for Men. He went back to his place to get ready and I stayed at my place to get ready. Since it was August and we were going to Willits, which was guaranteed to be hot as hell, I wanted to shave my legs so I could wear a little skirt. I did my normal shower routine plus shaving and then got out and started drying my hair. ALL came back over and was ready to go. When he saw that I wasn't ready, he started fuming, asking why I was wasn't ready and yelling about how he didn't have much time. I told him that I shaved my legs so it was taking me a little longer than usual to get ready and that enraged him. Before I knew it, he had pulled me out of the bathroom and was yelling in my face. He grabbed me by the throat and threatened to choke me to death. We were now in the hallway of my apartment, his hands around my neck, his wide mouth open showing his missing bottom tooth, his forehead creased, his eyes filled with hatred. He squeezed tighter around my neck and I was pissed. I reached up and squeezed my hand around his neck. I figured, even though I couldn't hurt a 220-pound ex-con with a woman-beating problem, I at least wasn't going to bitch out. I was mad, too. All I did was shave my fucking legs! Of course, when I squeezed his neck, that made him go from enraged to blackout insane. He squeezed my neck so hard that I felt myself fading fast. I couldn't breathe and I went limp. After that I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I woke up on the floor, against the wall, in another room. Immediately, I started shouting, "You choked me until I passed out! You could've killed me! I'm pregnant!" He said, "I didn't do shit to you, get up." I wouldn't let it go. I was horrified by this. All the violence that had happened before was bad, but it all of it happened to me and me alone. This time, he wasn't just hurting me - he was hurting my baby. This was unacceptable. So I played along with him, let him try to make it up to me by taking me on a trip to the coast, cooking me breakfast, blah, blah, blah, all that bullshit abusers like to do to suck you back into their insanity so they can abuse you again. But secretly, I didn't pay rent that month. I stuck the money ($1000) inside a sock in my sock drawer and waited. He wouldn't let me out of his sight for days because he knew I might try to escape, but he finally felt secure enough that I wouldn't leave him, and he had to go back to the SLE or he would get kicked out, which would fuck up his probation, so he went back. That night, I called my mom and told her what was going on and she convinced me to leave. So I packed up my $1000, a picture of my dead dog, a framed serenity prayer painting, and a laundry basket full of clothes, and took off in the middle of the night. There's a lot more to this story, I ended up staying with ALL for another year in a long-distance relationship, and eventually moved back to San Rafael to be with him again (it only lasted two weeks after I arrived - then I had to escape from the bastard again) but for now, I'll just talk about the baby situation. I came home to Bellevue, to my Dad's house. He thought my best option would be to abort the baby. I went along with it, even though I wanted the baby and had planned for the baby, researched the birth, my diet, the sleeping arrangements, etc. I had the abortion, and I suppose it was for the best, but ever since then I've felt pretty anti-baby again. That was my one decent into baby-craziness and it ended pretty fucked up. So, now I'm older, I've got a great guy who I love, who loves me, who would NEVER hurt me. He's brilliant, stunningly beautiful, responsible, sweet, just a damn good guy, and I think - why would I want to screw this up with kids? That's what kids do. They make happy couples want to murder eachother. They turn hot chicks into short-haired soccer moms. They are the wedge between the man and the woman and they cause divorce more often than not. I like being thin and beautiful, I like having sex every day, sometimes twice a day. I like being able to get my hair done when I want, go to the gym when I want, not having to orchestrate my job and my appointments around a child. Besides, the world is overpopulated. That's not just something people say to justify not having children, either. That shit is real. There are too many of us here all breathing the same polluted air and driving on the same congested roads, eating the same contaminated food, and attending the same broken public schools. (This is the one area of my life where I become a Republican - if I ever did have children, you can bet your ass they'd be in private school.) Maybe adopting dogs would keep my relationship intact (and my thighs), save the planet of one more parasite sucking off of it, and it would allow me to pick names other than Resentment and Dream Killer. I've already named my new computer David Lee Roth and my external hard drive Eddie Van Halen, so this could take some time. Maybe Jerry and Pig Pen. But thinking about having children is definitely good for counting my current blessings. When I think about how awful life could be if it revolved around someone other than me, my current situation seems pretty damn sweet. No resentments, dreams in reach, and  stretch mark free.

I just watched this doc about weed growers in Nor-Cal. I don't know why I torture myself by watching something that just reminds me of my dream. My whole life I've been trying to get to California, and every damn time I get there, something fucked up happens that sends me back to Bellevue. There is no place on earth as beautiful as the Northern California mountains. Those sun-dried rolling hills, the twisting, dense forest. I've never slept better in my life than I did when I lived in a tent off Bell Springs. It was so dark and peaceful, zillions of stars in the sky, only the sounds of the mountains themselves. I miss it so much. I pray for the day when I can buy my Nor-Cal land. Acres of property in the mountains, my yurt, my wind turbine, an organic garden, a well. My dogs and chickens, all that privacy! I realize I have a bit of a social phobia. I always think I want to hang out with people, and get really excited when someone asks me to do something, but the closer to the time when we're supposed to hang out gets, the more I start to think I really don't want to do it after all. What I want more than lots of friends or being invited out to do things I don't want to do, is just to have my acreage, my dream home, my dogs, and HAM. I don't need many people, or things. I would need a car with four-wheel drive to get to and from my home, and I'd love to have a gym. But that's the one major luxury item that I desire. I don't need a home theater or an olympic size pool, I don't need leather furniture (in fact I would NEVER own leather furniture) or whatever kinds of things rich people require. I don't need a huge TV or a tennis court, or even a hot tub (although I would like a hot tub). What I really want is to be peaceful and happy in the mountains with my little family, possibly growing weed, writing, sewing, growing my own food and raising chickens for eggs (not meat). The simple life. And a home gym. And not a lame "all-in-one" machine, but an actual gym, with mirrors, cardio machines, benches, free weights, a big mat, and various other workout apparati. Maybe a sound system and a TV mounted on the wall. That's my one luxury desire - not that big of a deal. But if I couldn't have that, I'd at least like to live close enough to a gym that it isn't an hour drive to get there. It took an hour to ge anywhere from Bell Springs. But it was way out in Laytonville, and Laytonville is already such a small town that even when you finally get to town, gas is about 500 thousand dollars a gallon and everything in the grocery store is inflated by 50%. There's one restaurant/ bar, a deli, a post office, a couple motels, a grocery store, a gas station, and a coffee shop with (surprisingly) wireless internet access. I'd rather live in the Ukiah mountains because Ukiah has more going on than Laytonville and Willits is so hick it might as well be Texas. But since my ex-fiance, ALL, is from there, it's really not a safe place to live. That's so unfortunate because I truly fell in love with Mendocino County and never wanted to leave. It's so beautiful there, and there's no traffic. I never had to wait in line at the post office and I never got stuck in rush hour. Granted, it takes about an hour to get anywhere in Mendo (if you're not just going to the grocery store down the street), but it's so majestic and filled with nature that I don't care how long it takes to get somewhere - the drive is like meditation. Not like rush hour, where sitting in my car makes me want to murder the person in front of me. Taking a long time to get somewhere due to distance is fine, it's taking a long time to get somewhere because of congestion that gets my skin boiling. But the fact is, that won't be a reality for several years. It's my dream, and I can't let it die. I will get there someday. Until then I have to learn to grow food and raise chickens, sew my own clothes, ferment my own Kombucha, use public utilities to run my appliances, and keep the hippie dream alive.

It was a toss up this evening between tanning and writing. Here I am, so obviously I chose the latter. EP invited me to a barbeque tomorrow and I'm thinking I will go. I don't know anyone there besides her and I'm not very good at parties, especially if I don't know anyone, but I feel like a jerk that I keep avoiding hanging out with her. Even though she's a hot girl, she actually is really nice. I just never know what to say to girls. I've spent most of life around guys. My first friend was a boy. We met in Hawaii when I was one year old. Then, growing up in West Seattle, my best friend was a boy. We used to build homes for worms out of mud and leaves, throw toys around my room, get chased by packs of neighborhood dogs, and torment his twin sister. There was a bit of time, middle school, where I didn't really have any boy friends. But in high school, my best friend was a boy. We talked on the phone for hours every day. He had a crush on me, and since I didn't feel the same way, we became friends for several years. When I started hanging out at Totem Lake Denny's, there were mostly guys there. I became friends with pretty much all of them. Wherever I went, whatever I did, I always had lots of dudes around me. I like guys because they're usually funny and there's no competition. I get to be the pretty one, the one with the vagina, they get to be the ones who settle for being my friend because I won't date them. I'll admit, I've had my share of guy friends who bought me drinks, dinners out, clothes, gas for my car. One guy bought me cable TV. I always got free drugs. To this day, I have no idea how much an eight-ball costs. Although it doesn't matter anymore. I've just had a lot of bad experiences with girls. A girl introduced me to HAM. She had a boyfriend, but apparently she liked HAM, or at least she wanted HAM to like her. When she found out that he and I were seeing eachother, she didn't want to be my friend anymore. That really hurt. I thought she actually liked me but it turned out she liked me until she realized that guys were more attracted to me than to her. As soon as she realized that, she was out. Now she's best friends with HAM's ex girlfriend. I had a "best" girl friend for years. I'll call her TB. TB was pretty cool for a while. Super artistic. She was a poet, and she was funny. We had all kinds of inside jokes and we also spent hours on the phone. Bit drugs eventually tore us apart. She went to prison for a year for international drug trafficking, and I only wrote her twice the whole time she was locked up. We stayed friends after that, but she was really fucked up, and I guess I wasn't much better. Eventually I got sober and I decided I didn't like the state of our relationship, so I basically broke up with her. I've talked to her only one time since then, to apologize for being a total shithead (because I broke up with her through email after being best friends for 15 years). I guess she's living in some ghetto apartment out in Lake City and spends every night in a gross bar getting wasted. So I guess I'm not missing much. Too bad, though, because she used to be really amazing. She was so charismatic. She was the type of bitch who could make friends with anyone, get a job anywhere, convince anyone of anything. She could dance, sculpt, write, sing, and paint. Drugs and alcohol just sucked the soul out of her. I guess they sucked my soul out for a while, too. I'm thankful for all that time I spent sober and for learning how to live sober, learning that "getting fucked up" really isn't that great. I mean, every once in a while, sure, but every day? So lame. Life is too good to spend it high. Besides, I like my job, I love HAM, I love that family trusts me, that I can hold a job, go to school, write, work out, afford to get my nails and hair done, look realistically toward the future. I enjoy a nice glass of wine here and there, and a good old-fashioned opiate session is still enjoyable every now and then, but I'm not trying to spend my life as a junkie. I truly learned from AA that life is better without drugs and alcohol running it. But I have also discovered that I don't have to be a teetotaler to NOT be a junkie. There is a balance. Anyway, I've gone off in a completely different direction here. My cat is staring at me. Girls...that's what I was talking about. I'd love to have some girlfriends, but where the smart girls at? Where the funny bitches at? I miss my college professor, SH. That's the kind of chick I want in my life. Funny, brilliant, eccentric, and darn cute. I guess I really need to go back to school and get my master's if I really want those type of chicks in my life. The ones who understand my sense of humor, who think deeply about things, who know there's more to life than taanning. I get to be that girl who's funny, eccentric, smart, and hahaha, she goes tanning and spends $300 on her hair, isn't that insane? Oh, that BG, what a character. I want to be the only girl in my group of girlfriends who goes tanning and gets her hair and nails done, because usually the girls who do things like that are empty, vacant. There lives revolve around those things and they lack substance. I do those things now more for HAM than for me. I mean, I like being pretty and well-maintained, but it's expensive and a lot of work and time. I can think of about a zillion things that are more important than tanning. Like writing this long, rambling blog about...what is this about? Girls, drugs, and tanning? I guess. My point is, all those superficial things I do, I don't believe in them as worthwhile endeavors, I just can't stop doing them for some reason. I am attache to physical appearance, being pretty, or desiring to be pretty. But I know in the greater scheme of things, hair, nails, makeup, and tanning is all irrelevant. It won't say on my tombstone, "BG - She had fabulous hair". (I guess I could request that if I really wanted to.) I would like it to say something like, "BG - A great writer and a true friend" or something like that. "Loved by many". Right now I have HAM, my mom and dad, and my grandma, who (if things go the way they're supposed to) will probably not be at my funeral. Maybe there would be an old guy friend who would show up, maybe my ex boyfriend, BD, and my homie KH, but other than that, I am not loved by very many at all. "Loved by a few". Better than "BG who?" Oh well, this is getting a bit morbid. I just need to go to this barbeque tomorrow. 

I did hot yoga last night for the first time in almost a year. It was good to get back and sweat off about three pounds of my bodyweight. But there's something yoga instructors always like to remind you of while you're balancing on one foot and giving yourself a good ol'fashioned reacharound. They always say things like, "Don't compare yourself to anyone else in class. This is your yoga practice. It doesn't matter if the person in front of you can stretch a little further. This is about you doing your best practice." I don't know if they sayt that because as humans, we're just competitive by nature and we're always looking at others to see how we measure up, or if it's because they can see me eyeing the hot chick who's bent in half with her right leg behind her head and still has no belly fat hanging over the top of her ass-bearing yoga shorts. I can't help but compare myself to these girls. Any time I enter a hot yoga class, I immediately scan the room for the hot girls and then spend the rest of the class eyeing them from my upward dog. I also wonder, how do they stay looking so beautiful in 115 degree heat while moving through a series of warrior poses? I see myself in the mirror and my face is beet red and dripping with sweat. Then I see these girls and it looks like they're in full makeup with only a slight sheen. Is it those eyelash extensions? Permanent makeup? I guess hot girls are juse hot at all times. They probably look like that first thing in the morning, too. I feel like I look like a completely different person without makeup on. It's not too terrible when it's just everyday, but in a hot yoga class I do not look pretty. And I always feel like HAM must be comparing me to these girls as well. of course, I have no proof of that, and he's never given me reason to think that he would do that, but I still feel like he must be thinking, "I wish that girl was my girlfriend instead of BG." Or at least, "I'd like to do that girl." I know that it isn't all about looks. He likes me for other reasons, too (although I'm not sure what they are) but I still feel insecure whenever there's a girl around who's obviously hotter than me. Because when he met me, I was almost physically perfect. My body was on fire back then. I was the perfect weight and my stomach was rock hard, I was super tan, and I'd always get my nails done with black french tips - his favorite. He's said before that he thinks girls should always wear makeup and get their nails done. Well, it's just not possible for me to always wear makeup or afford to get my nails done every two weeks. And what I do these days is already a complete 180 from what I used to do. I mean, shit, I never wore makeup or a bra, or shoes for that matter. I had dreadlocks and didn't shave. I never would've even thought of tanning or getting my nails done. This whole Bellevue Girl thing is rather new to me and it's not always easy for me to stay on top of it. Sometimes I wish I could just go back to the dreadlocks and bare feet and just say "fuck it" to all the superficial bullshit. But I'm too insecure for that now. besides, HAM met me when I was almost perfect and I just assume that's what he expects from me, so I'm constantly trying to get back there. It's hard, though. With all these health problems I've had over the last year, I've gained and lost the same 10 lbs several times and right now I'm somewhere in between. I know he's come to love me over the last year and a few months that we've been together, so it's not all about my appearance anymore like I'm sure it was at the beginning. I just want to be perfect for him. Why? I want him to keep loving me. Once he said he had concerns that I might end up looking like my mom one day. It really hurt my feelings for two reasons: 1) Because I love my mom and I don't want to hear anyone say bad things about her and 2) Because my mom and I are two different people who lead different lifestyles. I work out five days a week and put a great deal of effort into my health and appearance. My mom has always been more focused on art than on exercise. There's just no way to compare the two of us or to be able to look at her for a prediction of what I'll look like when I'm older. He later apologized and took back what he said, and I believe he meant that, but it's still in the back of my mind. Anyway, I am supposed to somehow come to accept who I am and that I will never be perfect but that I'm pretty good, not fat, etc. I am not there yet by any means, but at least I am aware that I need to get to a place of acceptance in order to be happy and one way to do that is to stop comparing myself to hot girls in hot yoga and just focus on my best practice. In hot yoga and in life.

I got this chord that hooks up the computer to the TV so now I can watch Netflix movies like actual movies, it's pretty baller. Also, my Amazon.com book selling business is coming along. I've sold three books so far. I have so much shit that I want to sell. Two engagement rings, some diamond earrings, a couple pearl necklaces, a gold, diamond, and ruby broach, and a gold watch. Then I have a Jessica McClintock wedding gown, a huge set of silverware including servingware, all these designer handbags that I bought for cheap at Ross (all new with the tags still on), plus all these books. I'll probably sell the earrings to my dad and put the engagement rings on consignment somewhere. I just really want to sell all this stuff because I love making money. I want to start my own business since my job doesn't pay very much. Actually, it pays well, it's just that the hours are so few and I don't get any insurance benefits. I want to be an entrepreneur. I want to be successful working for myself rather than have to rely on a boss. Why work for someone else when I could work for myself? I'm not a huge fan of humans, so it would be perfect. Not that I always like me, but at least I'm familiar with me and I wouldn't take any of my own shit if I were my boss. I would be able to see right through my tactics to get out of work early or ways to put forth the least amount of effort. Besides, if I were my own boss, I wouldn't geet paid until I did the work, so I'd pretty much have to stay on top of things. I'm just tired of being poor. I mean, I hope I will eventually make it as a writer, but until that happens, it would be nice to sell shit online and make some cash, or start some other kind of business locally. I have thought about petsitting/dogwalking because I love animals and I have done it before, as well as several other jobs working with animals, but I know how much work it requires, and I don't know if I'm ready to spend every waking moment worrying about all these different animals all over town. It's so stressful. But what else could I do? I don't know how to do that many things that would allow me to go into business for myself. I can write, I can take care of animals, I can shop. That's about it. I wish I could get  a job shopping. I love shopping.